


Death is only the Beginning

by KeeperofSeeds



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, Tarot, Temporary Character Death, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 09:15:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6368854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeeperofSeeds/pseuds/KeeperofSeeds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Childermass had been killed by Lady Pole? </p>
<p>based on a jsmn-kinkmeme prompt</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Norrell/Childermass, Childermass killed by Lady Pole
> 
> Yup, I'm going there. What if the bullet had landed a little closer to his heart? What if Childermass had died? What would Norrell have done? Especially if they were secretly together, or if Norrell felt more for him than he let on? He was such a dick to Childermass when he was recovering but if he actually died?!?! And what would happen to Lady Pole? Would Norrell actually let himself feel guilty since really it's all his fault?!
> 
> Basically give me uncharacteristically grief stricken Norrell, either with out of control fury/magic or completely numb/shutting everyone out. Or both (multiple stages of grief).
> 
> \+ if Norrell tries to summon the fairy again to resurrect Childermass, but it doesn't work or he is denied  
> \+ if Lascelles is really put out that Norrell is so upset over a fucking servant  
> \+ if Norrell tries to use Childermas's cards to find out what to do  
> \+ if the Raven King intervenes and resurrects Childermass the way he does with Vinculus, because he still needs him (maybe Norrell enlists Strange's help to summon him, like the reverse of the book)
> 
> Idk what a silly prompt
> 
> http://jsmn-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1273.html?thread=882169#cmt882169

 Mr. Norrell stares down at the pale face before him. Childermass' face. Paler than it ever was in life. Yet Norrell could not stop staring, searching for some hint of movement. As if the man might open his eyes at any moment and reveal some joke. Or perhaps chide Norrell for the state of his dress.

But the man stayed still. And Norrell's vigil continued.

He'd sent all but a few of the most vital servants away when he'd received the news of Childermass' passing. He had not even been present at the time. It was early morning on the fourth day after the shooting and he'd been in the library, asleep his books, candles burnt out. He'd been searching for spells useful in healing. Having never had any use nor interests in such spells before he was now cursing this gap in his knowledge. Even a hurried letter to Mr. Strange had not helped. His pupil admitting that his work in the Peninsula had been more defense oriented, the moving of trees and the frightening of enemy troops rather than the healing of their own forces. After a frustrating evening and with his library in an uncommonly state of disarray, Mr. Strange had taken his leave with a promise that he would be available for help should the need later arise.

But now it was too late.

Childermass was gone.

The bullet itself had been removed but the loss of blood had proved too much and the man had never awoken.

The dark stains in the kitchen stood as an uncomfortable reminder. Norrell found it easier to look at the stains than at Childermass' bloodless face.

He felt numb. His emotions were a jumbled mess inside, and it felt easier to distance himself rather than sort through them. The relief of seeing Mr. Strange home again and the delight at the thought of picking up their lessons again to the surprise and shock of seeing Lady Pole's in the street to the horror of hearing the noises Childermass had made as the surgeon dug in his wound.

He felt his hands start to shake. It was too much to process.

He turned from the table to leave and slipped on something on the floor. Throwing out his hand to catch himself, he glanced down.

It was Childermass' cards.

The ridiculous cards that Childermass had such faith in. There was scarcely other acts of magic that could be called more disreputable. Card reading was the act of vagabonds and thieves. Yet for all his disproval Childermass had continued to trust them and to relay what information he gained through them.

Norrell picked up the bloodstained cards and slipped them into the inner pocket of his waistcoat, the same place he'd seen Childermass pull them from, and retreated to take refuge in the library.  He did not emerge for the next 48 hours.  
  


* * *

 

All attempts in this time to enter the library during this time were rebuffed, whether by magical means or by more mundane. 

Shouted questions through the thick wood doors went unanswered, any sort of key or pick inserted into the door melted away into dust or grew hot enough to burn the hand of whoever held it. Plates left outside the door by the maids went untouched and even the windows remained bolted shut with curtains drawn with only the rain being small enough to penetrate the cracks.

The only sign of life from the library was the squeaking of wheels, the smell of petrichor, and the occasional flickering of all the candles in the house as if by a great wind.

 

What was in fact the most disturbing about Mr. Norrell's disappearance was by the time the servants had arrived back the next day, the body of Childermass has disappeared.

The rumors surrounding the situation increase to ridiculous proportions.

The idea that Childermass was a Faerie servant all along and Mr. Norrell is hiding the body to stop word of any irregularities about the corpse. That he is being buried beneath the house itself instead of wasting time on a good Christian burial.

That the death of Mr. Norrell's servant was all an elaborate ruse to disguise an affair the man had been having with one of King George's daughters.  
  
 Or perhaps, the gossip says, Mr. Norrell is attempting obscene experiments upon the corpse, like in that recent novel by Mary Shelley. The unending rain that has centered round London the past few days has this theory a favorite one at local taverns, with more than one patron keeping an eye on the sky for lightning.

Drawlight brings in a list as long as his arm of the gossip circling the streets.

Luckily the rumors are not paid much heed by the gentlemen of Parliament. So Lascelles and Drawlight judge the matter well enough in hand for the moment and decide to wait Mr. Norrell and his ridiculous outburst of emotions out.


	2. Chapter 2

Mr. Norrell, locked within the labyrinth of his library was unaware of any such rumors.  

 He stares down at his books without reading. The normal comfort of the pages is out of his reach.

The steady stream of rain outside his windows reflects the dismal state of his mood. It has not let up since he shut himself inside.

He cannot help but replay the scene over in his mind. Maybe there was something he could have done? Some way he could have prevented this horrid chain of events?

Some spell or some other precaution…

But no. Fear had held him to the spot as he'd exited his carriage and seen Lady Pole advancing on him. His anxieties had overridden all sense.

And it had cost him.

His dearest friend, the man who knew him best…gone. Out of his reach.

Tears began to silently flow down Norrell's cheeks.

He flounders, alone in his misery. All his knowledge, all his years of study for naught, as it could not save a friend in his time of need.

 

The tears blur his vision but his handkerchief is lost and he must make do with the edge of his house coat.

If he was a religious man Mr. Norrell would have turned to prayer, but he was not. He had only his books now. Books which had been useless up until now. For the first time in years the knowledge that he sought was out of his reach. And with every day that passed the chance of finding a way to save Childermass grew more unlikely. 

Eventually his tears dry on their own, and Mr. Norrell is left with a feeling of exhaustion and a strange sort of emptiness beneath his breast.

It has been over a day since he has eaten but he does not hunger. It is as if he has turned hollow in the night, all his emotions scooped from within and deposited somewhere else.

He stares blankly down at his books.

_Useless_ he thinks in frustration. 

But the frustration is preferable to the numbness and in a moment of desperation he shoves the nearest tomb from the table.

It makes a satisfying thud as lands. The sounds echoing out within the library, infiltration the dark corners away from his small island of candlelight.

It only reminds him of how empty the room is.

 

He finds his hands drawn towards his inner pocket. Childermass' cards rest uneasily in his hands.

Perhaps the cards will show him the next step. He is running out of ideas, but to stoop to such a thing would normally be unthinkable.

He looks around the library, almost expecting Lascelles to creep out of the darkness and catch him in the act and sneer at such a feat. But of course there is no one save himself and the body of Childermass. The door remains sealed.

Whatever shameful acts he attempts tonight will remain a secret.

 

* * *

 

The cards are as shabby as Childermass' best coat. Well worn and with the ends beginning to fray. They lend the user an edge of ill repute with their shape and make alone. 

He did not normally pay much attention when Childermass was reading his cards. Only listening to the information relayed, and to judging whether it was useful or not.

He fumbles as he shuffles the cards.

He cannot remember the arrangement Childermass preferred. Memories of street magicians from his childhood bring forth a simple three card spread. That should be simple enough to manage.

He moves closer to the candle upon his desk and grasps the top card with one small clammy hand, before flipping it upon the desk.

Another follows it and another. Down before he can think twice about this foolish idea.

 

For a moment he can hear the gravel of Childermass' voice behind him, gently chiding, "No no sir. You're doing it wrong. Allow me."

Closing his eyes allows the illusion to become more believable. Maybe if he fumbles the cards enough Childermass will rise up himself to come fix his blunders. 

His eyes fall shut by their own volition, not sure if he waiting for the brush of Childermass' coat as he leans over to correct the lie of the cards or if he is just procrastinating.

A few moments more and with no improbable brush from Childermass, no sound of his solid footsteps behind him, he sighs and places the deck out of reach of any dripping wax and looks down.

  
The first card is difficult to decipher from its picture alone. He peers closer to read the faint numeral on the side. The Nine of Swords. The second card is more obvious. Le Judgement. The last card is most unexpected. L'Amoureux, the Lovers stare back at him. 

He is not sure where to start divining meaning in this strange spread.

 

Judgment is the most obvious to his situation. Even his untrained eye can guess at a meaning relevant to his situation. The proverbial Judgment Day, when all shall be risen and judged worthy or not in the eyes of the Lord. That card at least is promising. Childermass shall be brought back.

But how?

He peers at the other two cards, as if to intimidate them into giving up their secret meanings.

Chewing on his lip he eyes the first card again. Nine of Swords. Does the number nine have some significance he wonders.

If he were to continue to use the Bible as a relevant source than nine could be a symbol of judgment and finality.

There must be more than that but he cannot see.

The forms of the Lovers, rendered in great detail by Childermass' hand stares up at him. But that cannot be. Too obvious too unlikely.

Or he is too ignorant to see past the surface meaning.

 

He sweeps the deck off the table in frustration. They flutter down slowly, like moths, uncaring of his anger. Such a foolish pursuit.

Anger, like an ember deep within his soul, takes root. Anger at Childermass for not being here, for not being able to read the damnable cards, and at Lady Pole herself.

Damn that woman! And damn the sympathy he'd once felt for her.

The spark of anger deep within grows. Feed by the memories of her screaming at him, at the sight of Childermass sprawled out on the streets.

He leaves the cards where they land.

Turning back to the corner desk he lifts up the sheet beneath which he'd placed Childermass' body. Out of sight for now, but it would need to be moved to a more secretive place come morning.

The body has gone stiff, but Mr. Norrell was not bothered and rested his hand on still blood stained one below. He had not the courage for such a gesture when the man was still living. Only now, when there is no threat of rejection, does he let his hand linger.

He remembers Lady Pole's unconscious form being carried from his home he feels a small surge of selfish delight/something verging on glee(? look up better term). Her suffering is not over. Another 75 years of her "madness" remain. Such a fate is worse than a hanging. Even if the hanging would take in the first place. It's enough of a sense of revenge to satisfy him for the moment.

It is not proper for a gentlemen to take delight in such violent thoughts, but in his grief he no longer cares.

In privacy, he shall think and do what he likes.

He shall find a way to bring Childermass back. He drops his hand, smoothing the sheet once more over Childermass' still face, and thinks perhaps the time for respectable magic is at an end.


	3. Chapter 3

The servants of Hurtfew Abbey breathe a small collective sigh of relief when the library doors open the next morning. Though Mr. Norrell emerges only for a short while to take his breakfast and to change dress and reject most of the callers, it is similar enough to how things were that most of the fears are put to rest for the moment. Worry over who would, or possible could, step into Childremass' place still plague the staff, there is enough that needs doing for the moment that such thoughts are swept aside.

Mr. Norrell retreats back into the library after relaying his orders, though the door is now unlocked.

Childermass' body remains missing.  

* * *

 Mr. Strange is the first to come calling. He finds Norrell up a ladder peering at a shelf of books and frowning as if what he sees isn't up to his standards.

Jonathan clears his throat and Norrell startled and began the climb down, speaking quickly. "Oh. Mr. Strange sir. I did not expect you quite so soon. I'm afraid the continuation of your apprenticeship will be delayed I- I- I am quite occupied at this moment and may be for some time still."

Jonathan gaped at the unexpected state of Mr. Norrell. With a hat instead of the usual wig and his coat unbuttoned and his general preoccupation as he descended only to then pick up a sheet of paper from the many on his desk. "Was there something else?"

"No. No- it's just, what I mean to say sir," Jonathan stumbled for a moment before pulling himself together. "What I mean to say is that I came to offer my condolences for the loss of your man. And that I shall be available at your convenience to restart my lessons."

Norrell nods at that. "I shall be in contact then" and resumes shuffling through more pages. Jonathan isn't at all sure what to make of the man's focus and despite the dismissal ventures forth one last parting comment. "If there is anything at all you require assistance with, I hope you will feel free to contact me. I would be pleased to help in any way I can."

Norrell pauses at that, eyeing his pupil before replying in the negative. "There is nothing. No…not at this moment. Though it is kind of you to offer Mr. Strange. I thank you." With that he sits down behind the desk, grabs a quill and begins to make notes on the paper in hand, leaving Mr. Strange to find his own way back out.

* * *

 Arabella meets a confused Jonathan back at their home. "How was he?" she inquires as he hands off his jacket and hat to Mary.

"In all honestly I am not quite sure. I have never seen Norrell like this. Not even during our studies. He barely looked at me the whole while." Arabella begins to pour out tea but Jonathan is pacing the sitting room now looking concerned. "But that was not the strange part. You should have seen the library, Arabella" he went on gesturing wildly, "there were papers all amiss and his candles had all run low and books…on the floor! The floor Arabella! I know Norrell replied upon Childermass for many things but this is not like him. He didn't even inquire about the books I took." That fact seems to hit Jonathan the hardest.

Arabella takes a sip of the tea. "It seems Mr. Norrell is more human than I first suspected."

"Belle" Jonathan admonishes as he finally seems to deflate and sits heavily across from her.

"No no," she waves a hand, "I meant no disrespect. Merely that it is comforting to know even magicians do not know all the secrets of the world. That even the great Mr. Norrell has faults.

That gets a snort from Jonathan.

"Surely you already know such things, being married to a magician."

"You play by your own set of rules Jonathan. And I love you for all your quirks."

He grins and bites into a biscuit.

"Did he mention when the funeral is to be? We should pay our respects and support your mentor."

Jonathan pauses thinking back on the short conversation. "No…he mentioned nothing of funerals. He was too caught up in searching through his library for God knows what."

"Perhaps you should send a letter tomorrow inquiring" Arabella suggests.

"Perhaps….the whole meeting just left me with an odd feeling. The library itself felt out of sorts, as if it was holding its breath in anticipation of some new spell." He paused thinking over the matter. "yes…a letter would be a good idea. The longer I think on it the more I feel in my heart that something wasn't quote right at Hurtfew Abbey."

And with a quick kiss to Arabella's cheek, Jonathan left wife and cooling tea behind to begin drafting a letter.

If only he could have truly known what lengths Mr. Norrell was truly prepared to go.

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't resist a shout out to the King George's daughters ruse from the book because I actually laughed out loud while listening to that bit on my audiobook. Also to Frankenstein because Mary Shelley references are always relevant.


End file.
